I too, am a pause

Hanging over pauses
I left language silent
Vanishing like stardust\

A brief vertigo of between
Thought and feeling
A little will of innocence
Running wild like insubstantial
Aesthetics of apparitions neither\

Truly named or published, simply
Verse, left to grow by itself
Secret gardens of untouched clarity\

Forever still in the words between
Messages, in the stanzas
Left clear of actual substance
A voice of alphabets forever drawing
Near, yet ringing from some far off
Distant place, a word-salad\

Of weightless hours of lyrical birth
Transparent for the silence
Of moments empty and sweet\

That could have been filled with anything
Remote and near, poetry dug
Like channels of the fountain of youth
Where circular afternoons prey
In the pretty tributes of eternal mind

The spiritual leftovers of past lives
Spilling over in elusive stars that write
About the light of enormous night
And how theatre became destiny.